THE PURLOINED LABRADOODLE

by BARRY B. LONGYEAR

****

Wherein Jaggers and Shad give new meaning to the phrase

“impersonating an ... officer?”

I had originally intended these narratives to address the more

significant inquiries Guy Shad and I worked in our time together in the
Exeter office of Artificial Beings Crimes. An incautious comment I made in
my chronicle of Shad’s death in “The Hangingstone Rat,” however, touched
upon my suspicion Shad might have his rescued engrams imprinted
temporarily on a celebrity look-alike bio of British actor Nigel Bruce while his
mallard duck replacement meat suit matured. Nigel Bruce, of course, was
known primarily for his role as the bumbling Dr. Watson in the grayscale
Sherlock Holmes vids of the mid twentieth century. I deduced this attire
would amuse Shad to no end due to my police replacement bio strongly
resembling Basil Rathbone, the actor who played Sherlock Holmes in the
same series.

Since Shad regarded me as something of a foil for his humor, due to

his former career as the American comic advert insurance duck on the telly,
he could not possibly resist the opportunities for silly situations with us thus
configured. This aside in one of my accounts, however, produced a rash of
queries about the cases we worked thus resembling Holmes and Watson,
neé Rathbone and Bruce. Not just the facts, mind you. These inquiring
minds wanted to know down-to-the-last-flipping-detail, please and thank you
very much.

Shortly after he moved into his new feathers, I discussed it with Shad.
As always he had little interest in anything not involving movies, acting, his
feline friend Nadine, or solving the current case. When I pointed out to him
that the original Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Aurhur Conan Doyle were
narrated by Dr. Watson, hence rightfully Shad should author our adventures
so made up, he looked up from his case file and said, “You know, Jaggs,
despite my many quills, I’ve never been much of one for writing.”

We were on three matters together with Shad in his Watson meat suit.
The first of these inquiries I have titled “The Purloined Labradoodle.” This
inquiry initially had nothing to do with Watson or a Labradoodle. It initiated
actually in relation to improperly imprinted puppies, an imprisoned parakeet,
and a parrot profoundly perturbed.
 “Limp stone,” muttered the parrot darkly.

I finished stocking the shelves in back of the small shop counter with
boxes of birdseed, tins of dog food, and little packets of catnip. The
counter and display case were festooned with colorful leashes of assorted
sizes; plastic bones; rubber mice; squeaky toys; scratching posts; king-,
queen-, and knave-sized pet beds and such. The walls were hung with
posters concerning the various hideous diseases cats and dogs could
contract, complete with expensive preventative treatments that could be
purchased right here, should the shipments ever arrive. Shad and I, you
see, were undercover operating a pet shop in The Strand, Village of
Lympstone, east bank of the River Exe south of Exeter, Devon. I was the
pet shop owner and DS Shad had traded his cherished Nigel Bruce meat
suit in on what budget-strapped ABCD had left over in the way of
undercover pet bios: a rather timeworn parrot.

We were, as it happened, an insignificant part of a rather large task

force attempting to crack down on a UK ring of swindlers who were
representing real household pets as amdroid bios capable of taking full
human imprints with rather appalling consequences for bargain seekers
who would lose a good bit of their savings, all of their natural bodies, and
most of their minds in the process. The main thrusts of the task force effort
were in London, Manchester, and Bristol. Shad was being cranky on two
accounts: first, because he felt we had been left out of the big show; and
second, because he wasn’t getting to do his Dr. Watson, which he really
wanted to do.

Nevertheless, the pets used by the perpetrators came from

somewhere and covering pet stores was a logical investigative
consequence. From what we could observe from our post in Lympstone,
though, it didn’t appear to be a well coordinated operation—something
Shad was beginning to refer to as a “clusterbugger.” In any event, we were
on our third day of operations and our shipments of kittens, puppies, and
much of our equipment and supplies had yet to arrive. No bait, no
customers, no suspects. I looked from the window at the quaint village
street, and it was raining. There went our chance for someone blind drunk
mistaking us for a tube station and wandering in.

****

“Limp stone,” Shad muttered again from his perch at the end of the
counter. He was getting quite tiresome. I turned from the window.

“Actually, Shad, the m is silent and the stone is pronounced stin.

Lipstin.”

“Brits pronounce a whole lot better than they spell.”

“I don’t recall that American insurance company you did the telly
adverts for being such great spellers. Why wasn’t your duck quacking
‘Aflass, Aflass?’”

“You mean besides how close it sounds to ‘half-assed’? Jaggs, you

really think ‘The Petting Place’ is a good name for a pet store?”

“Superintendent Matheson chose the name, not I, as you well know.”

“It sounds like a bordello or lap-dancing salon. Why don’t we just call
it ‘The Cat House’ and be done with it?” The parrot held out his wings,
began bumping and grinding his hips as he danced on the perch, and sang
out in something of a Jamaican accent, ‘Hey dere, sailor boy, you come to
Mama Bimbo’s Cat House for all you pettin’ needs, mon.” The dance
stopped. “Jaggs, if you were a self-respecting crook would you go into a
pet store called The Petting Place?” He sidestepped grumpily from one
end of his perch to the other. “Can’t believe the names around this neck of
the woods: Ex mouth. Nut well. Glebe lands. Cock wood. Under Wear—”

“That’s Lower Wear and—”

“Key off, Jaggs,” cautioned Shad, nodding toward the window. “Live
one approaching. This may be the kitten pickin’ kingpin herself.”

The bell rang as the door opened revealing a short, stocky woman in
a green anorak and yellow plastic rain scarf, her feet in a pair of bright
yellow wellies. In her right hand she had by the handle a small gray metal
case. She walked up to the counter.

“Good morning, love,” I said. “How may I be of assistance?”

“I want me parakeet fixed,” she stated.

“Indeed. I regret to say we don’t neuter birds at Petting Place.” I

glanced at Shad and he was returning my look down his beak, as it were. I
looked back at the woman. “You’ll have to take your bird to a veterinary
surgeon.”

“I means repair. This one’s a robbie,” she said. “All ‘is nuts’s got bolts
in ‘em, if you gets me drift.”
 “I see.” I smiled brightly. “If I might take a look at your bird?”

“Nothin’ much works on it.” She lifted the case and dropped it rather
heavily on the counter. “Salt in the air, I expect. Too close to the bleedin’
ocean.”

I opened the case on the counter next to Shad’s perch. Inside the
case was a musty-smelling robotic parakeet. There was something white
and crusty dried between its toes. Shad moved on his perch until he could
look down into the case.

“Ain’t that cute, your parrot there looking at me bird. He’s in love!”

Midway through her rising belly laugh, Shad said to her, “Sod off, you
old cow.”

“Here, now!” she responded, her color rising.

“I apologize for the parrot, love,” I said. “I’m afraid we rescued the
poor thing from a rather tragic situation.”

“Aw,” she responded empathetically, reaching out a hand to pet

Shad’s head. “Chick abuse, was it?”

With a loud squawk and a belated flap of his unfamiliar wings, Shad
fell off his perch backward onto the floor.

“I didn’t hit the poor thing,” said the woman holding a hand up to her
maker. “I swear it.”

“Please don’t distress yourself unduly, madam. The bird also suffers
from an inner ear problem. It affects his balance.” Excusing myself, I went
around the end of the counter and bent over my partner. He was rolling on
the floor flapping his multicolored plumage, beak open, and laughing.
“Steady,” I said to him over our wireless net, a deserved degree of menace
in my transmission.

After a few gasps, Shad eventually said to me, “Sorry, Jaggs.

Ah-hah! Sorry, but check out the eyes on her bird. That’s no simple
robot.” He stood, doubled over, shook again, and transmitted, “Should I
share with her how I was never coddled as a young egg but spent my
deviled youth getting fried and have since become hard-boiled?”
 “Not unless you also wish to become scrambled and beaten,” I
buzzed back.

He flapped his wings and resumed his place on the perch, occasional
unconquerable snicker spasms shaking his feathers.

I turned toward the woman and smiled brightly yet again. “Now, shall I
take a look at your bird?”

Shad was correct. The creature’s eyes were animated, its gaze
darting about and eventually coming to rest upon me. If it was a simple
rundown robot and not a mech, its eyes should not have been moving. As
they were moving, however, indicating the possibility of a rather serious
crime, I asked as delicately as I could, “How long have you had this mech,
love?”

She laughed and waved a hand at my apparent silliness. “Oh, that’s

no mech, dearie. That one’s just a clockwork toy. Me aunt were well off, but
Auntie wouldn’t pay for no mech when she could get the feathers, flap, and
song by only payin’ for a robbie.”

“Really.”

“‘Course. Think she wanted to get tied up with all that red tape,
wages, taxes, forms, and bother? Not me Aunt Annabelle.” She frowned.
“Besides, if this here bird was self-aware, it’d take better care of itself,
wouldn’t it?” Before I could answer, she added, “More to point, that’s what
the parakeet told me aunt.”

“This parakeet told your aunt it didn’t come under the Artificial
Intelligence Regulations?”

“That’s what me aunt told me years before she passed on. The
parakeet told her, oh—” She frowned and looked up at the beamed ceiling.
“—got to be four years ago.” She lowered her watery gray gaze down until
she was looking me in the face. “See, Annabelle Wallingford passed last
year. Quite well off she was, as I said. Her place was in Wotton Lane by
Watton Brook.”

“In Wotton by Watton?” asked Shad.

She frowned at the parrot. “Cheeky bastard.”

 “To be sure. About the parakeet?” I prompted.

“Well, as part of Auntie’s estate, she left me Ringo. That’s what we

called this here bird before it seized up. Shame. Only had the bloomin’
thing a few days when it broke.”

“I see. And you’re bringing it in now because...?”

“Just getting around to going through me aunt’s things and cleanin’

up. Found Ringo tucked away in me auntie’s attic. Maddie girl, I says to
meself, it’d be right homey havin’ a singin’ bird in the lounge next to the
settee. Ringo sings real sweet’s, I remember.”

“I see.”

“With a robbie there’s no papers to clean up. No offense,” she said to

Shad.

He looked away, talon to brow, feigning acute personal devastation.

She poked the parakeet several times in the tummy. “I can do the
feathers up some with needles and me hot glue gun, but I’m no good with
chips, springs, electronics, and such. If it can’t be fixed I’ll just toss it in the
dustbin. Maybe a jumble sale. Some little tyke might have a laugh takin’ it
apart. Might be worth a bob or two.”

I lifted a wing and released it. It dropped to the counter with a thud.
“Let me take it in back and have a look.”

“Is this old parrot here for sale?” she asked, poking Shad in the belly.

“Easy, lady,” he said with the voice of Huntz Hall, “you’ll bruise the
fabric.”

“You’ll have to ask the bird, love,” I answered. “He’s a bio.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want no bio.”

“That’s not the issue, Chuckles,” Shad said to her. “The issue is,
does the bio want you.”

As I picked up the parakeet and carried it around the counter, Shad

began singing a rather raunchy sea shanty centered on a seductive female
giraffe and her erstwhile suitor, a love struck field mouse who, for reasons
unnecessary to elucidate here, ran himself to death. I took the mechanical
bird into the room where we had our surveillance equipment set up. I
cracked the parakeet’s back and Shad was right. Although the bird was
robotic, there was one slight illegal modification. Tucked among its gears,
bellows, batteries, and computer was an AI chip—an illegal AI chip at that.
I’m no expert in such things, but it looked as though the AI chip had worked
its way loose from its improvised mountings, which had caused a microcard
to partially dislodge from its tiny motherboard effectively paralyzing all
motor functions save the eyes.

With a pair of tweezers I disconnected the AI chip, took it over to the

workroom’s computer, and inserted it into the appropriate port. All of the
identification data on the chip was code scrambled. I keyed for voice
recognition and said, “Hello. Hello, hello, whoever you are.”

No response.

“Detective Inspector Harrington Jaggers, Devon ABCD here. I know

you’ve just gone though a rough patch, old chicken, but it’s about to get a
good deal bumpier. Either you talk to me or I put this chip right back in the
squab the same way I found it. Then one of two things happen: either
Maddie girl will toss you in the dustbin, or perhaps she’ll put you in a jumble
sale and someone six years old with sticky fingers will take you all apart
before he loses interest and goes on to something else. Or perhaps they’ll
make a Christmas tree decoration out of you. Pretty little bird. The way I
read your battery consumption rate, you have another two—two and a half
years you can click around those eyeballs up on some shelf until things go
dark for good. But who can say? Sitting on the tree next to the candy cane
once a year, looking through the plastic icicles, listening to tattooed and
perforated children playing their new thunder rumbles. It might be fun
listening to Dad and Uncle Mike wagging on endlessly about test matches,
especially after they’ve gotten good and bladdered, before you go back in
the box—”

“Very well,” interrupted the computer’s speakers in a female voice.

“You got me.”

“Indeed.” I thought I’d give my American partner a little Don Ameche

wireless moment. “Mr. Watson, come here, I want you,” I transmitted to
Shad.

The parrot flew through the door and landed atop the computer
monitor. “The Story of Alexander Graham Bell, Nineteen thirty-nine, and
that wasn’t the Watson I was hoping for.”
 “That’s all right, Shad. Right now you don’t look much like Henry
Fonda, anyway.” I pointed at the screen and Shad looked down between
his feet. A female human CGI was on the screen.

“That’s not Loretta Young.”

I looked at the lovely creature. “I do believe that’s Rita Hayworth.” The

computer generated image, indeed, looked like 1940s and ‘50s actress
Rita Hayworth in her role as the sultry nightclub singer in Affair in Trinidad,
with Glenn Ford. I frowned at Shad.

“Nineteen fifty-two,” he said without looking up.

Insufferable bird. I looked back at the screen. Pirate AI chip

manufacturers paid no royalties for images, but steered clear of using
images of still living celebrities who could afford to hire the forces of
darkness necessary to hunt down and prosecute trademark poachers and
encroachers. Rita, as always, was looking radiant. “Your name?” I asked
her.

“Lolita Doll.” Rita smiled demurely. “Honest, guv. That’s the name I
was born with, spelling and all. I’m from Plymouth by way of Land’s End.
Thanks for busting me out of that parakeet.”

“You’re not out of the feathers yet, love,” I said evenly. “I’m kind of
curious how you wound up in that chip, how that chip wound up inside that
bird, and especially how that bird wound up inside a wealthy woman’s
estate.”

The image was silent. From his perch atop the screen, Shad said, “Is
it just me or is Rita looking just a bit furtive?”

“What’s that parrot saying?” Rita—Lolita—asked me.

“Detective Sergeant Shad opined that you appeared just a tad

sneaky, Lolita. I agree you seem less than forthcoming.”

Shad hopped down to the keyboard, did a little dance on the keys,
and called up Lolita’s previous in a new frame. “Whoa!” he exclaimed in
mock shock. “Lolita,” said Shad, “I’d download your complete criminal
record, but this sorry shadow of a computer only has fifteen hundred
megagigs of memory.”
 I glanced at the list. Sealed juvenile previous weighing a third the
megabyte weight of her adult convictions. She was a jewel thief primarily,
some confidence work, not terribly competent at either. She couldn’t have
done much worse if she’d spent her mornings booking cells for her
evenings through the Convict Accommodation Association. Did her first
stint in H.M Prison and Remand Centre Exeter at the age of nineteen. Back
in at twenty-two. Back again at twenty-five. According to the record I was
reading she was nearing sixty and more than half of that time had been
spent as a guest of His Majesty’s government. According to her library
record in the nick, she’d read every piece of children’s fiction in the place.
Psych evaluation: Terrific liar; couldn’t change a battery; at risk for
becoming institutionalized, which meant she’s been inside so long she’d do
almost anything to stay behind walls.

“So you modified a robotic parakeet with a pirated mech AI chip

capable of taking a human imprint to sneak past the security systems into
some wealthy person’s home,” I said.

“Yes.”

“You do the work yourself, Lolita?”

“Sure.”

Shad whistled a bar from the Woody Woodpecker song. True. If she
had been Pinocchio instead of Rita Hayworth she would have had a
California redwood hanging from between her eyes by now.

“How could you be sure that parakeet would be chosen by your

mark?” asked Shad.

“The robbie was already sold to Annabelle Wallingford,” answered

Lolita. “I did work release at Songbirds in Queen Street, Exeter. It’s a tech
shop sells robbie birds and accessories. You know, it’s just up from Boston
Tea Party, in next to the News?”

“Yes,” I said. “I know it. It’s owned by Frankie Statten, isn’t it?”

“Mr. Statten’s the proprietor.”

Shad glanced at me and I shrugged. “You were on work release?” I

continued.

“So?”
 “Doesn’t say a whole lot for the rehab program up there,” observed
Shad. “The parakeet robbie gimmick, Lolita: What made you think of it?” he
asked her.

No answer for a while, then Rita said, “I suppose it seemed like a

good idea at the time.”

The parrot looked up at me. “Well, Sherlock, I guess she’s got nothin’
to hide.”

I sat down on a stool and looked again at Lolita’s file. The picture of
Lolita Doll—taken when her nat was about thirty—although of typical
constabulary quality, was not unpleasant. Her photo gave the impression of
a lonely, frightened girl trying to look tough and into her third decade of
refusing to stand up straight. Her most recent photo showed her sadder,
grayer, and a bit more stooped. “Swap your body for the AI chip and
imprinting, did you?” I asked, not much interested in the answer, knowing it
was going to be a lie.

Rita Hayworth glanced at the window, then looked away. She nodded.
“Just another meat suit, wasn’t it. Didn’t like the way I looked anyway. With
what I would’ve made off the Wallingford job—I could’ve become ... I
could’ve become ... why, just anybody, couldn’t I.” Rita shrugged and
looked down.

“Who would you have liked to become, Lolita?” I asked her.

“What’re you, copper? Bleedin’ Mother Mary?” The sneer Rita had on
her face was not attractive at all and was quite contradicted by the tears
welling in her CGI’s eyes.

“Listen up, you sorry scrap of plastic and magnetic impulses,” snarled
Shad into the workstation’s camera pickup, “You are talking to Detective
Inspector Harrington Jaggers of Interpol’s Artificial Beings Crimes
Division’s Devon Office, late of the London Metropolitan Police, the cop
who’s put away enough blood-and-guts stone killers to fill the recruiting
needs of every tattooed and drugged up prison gang in the United
Kingdom, Wales, and the Maldives until the next millennium! So unless you
want your highly illegal AI chip to accidentally find itself flushed down the
Petting Place’s toilet, me girl, you’d best straighten up and answer up, ‘less
you want to find yourself up that bleedin’ pile of sand and rock, haulin’ a
rucksack full of ruddy flippin’ shot puts!”
 He had begun as Jack Webb in The D.I., but at the end had slipped
rather badly into Harry Andrews in The Hill.

“Steady there, Shad,” I transmitted.

“Sorry,” he sent back.

Rita was looking rather wide-eyed at the parrot. After a moment her
gaze shifted to me. “Sorry, Inspector. Didn’t mean anything.”

I cleared my throat. “Who would you have liked to become?” I asked

her again.

Rita was trying, struggling for words, her eyes welling with electronic
tears. “I don’t know. I want to be...” She looked directly at me. “I want to be
safe.” She nodded to herself. “I’ll tell you, inspector. Safe. Taken care of.”
She glanced away for a moment, as though embarrassed. “Had that inside,
kind of. You know?” She looked back at me. “Wasn’t happy, though. I do so
want to be happy.”

“What about love, Lolita?”

“You having a laugh, guv?”

“No.”

“Don’t mix me up with the picture on the screen, Inspector. I’m near
sixty. Love’s something you read about in the romance graphs. Money,
now.” She smiled wickedly. “They tells me money can’t buy me love, but it
do make the search a heap more comfortable.”

“Spare us the brass, sister. What happened this time?” asked Shad.

She glanced at the parrot and shrugged. “Me own fault. Flying around
the place, scoping out the security systems, I ran flat into something. Never
saw it. Jammed me up. Froze me solid. Everything but me eyes and ears.
Butler found me next morning, put me on a shelf. Auntie shakes her head.
Auntie’s brother, Barney Bananas, takes me up to his room and sticks me
on top a nine year old slice o’ wedding cake he was saving for his future
missus, which give me sticky feet and a good look at his telly. ‘Course he
only played this one vid he liked, over and over and over, day in and
bleedin’ night out for a year three months a week and four days until Barney
Wallingford died right in the middle of Lawrence Harvey gettin’ kissed by
his mum for the last time as it turned out. Then they packed up Barmey
Barney’s belongings, including me, and stuck us all in the attic for another
three years. The last I saw the light ‘til Maddie checked me out to bring me
here.”

“Is she lying?” I transmitted to Shad.

“What was the name—” he began out loud.

“The Manchurian Candidate,” she answered, “Frank Sinatra,

Lawrence Harvey, Janet Leigh, Angela Lansbury—”

“The dir—”

“John Frankenheimer.”

“Pro—”

“George Axelrod and John Frankenheimer, Executive Producer

Howard W. Koch.”

“She may have seen it,” Shad reported back.

“Don’t you want to know who did Janet Leigh’s hair styles?” Rita
Hayworth asked the parrot. She pulled back the left corner of her mouth into
a knowing smile. “Or do you already know?”

The parrot looked up at me. “Only a fool bandies wits with an

electron,” I offered.

Shad looked back at the screen. “Who?” he asked.

“I rest my case.”

“Gene Shacove,” she answered.

While Shad went on the net to check out her answer, he asked Lolita,
“Why didn’t your partner come and get you out?”

Rita arched her lovely brows. “Partners look out for each other. If I
had a partner you think I would’ve gotten into such a fix?” She looked down.
“Four years,” she said. “Four years.”

“What did you do all that time to keep from going crazy?” asked
Shad.

Rita stared wide eyed at Shad. “Why, birdie, I passed the time by
playing a little solitaire.”

We both fell silent as Shad and I reflected upon the famous

trigger-the-killer line from the original The Manchurian Candidate. He
pointed his wing at the frame next to Rita. Janet Leigh’s hairstyles by Gene
Shacove.

Shad looked at Rita. “Ever see the remake to The Manchurian

Candidate?”

Rita nodded, smiling wickedly.

“What’d you think?”

“I’d rather go back and watch the original another fifty-five hundred
times.” Her CGI looked at me. “What are you going to do with me,
Inspector?”

“To be perfectly honest, Lolita, I don’t know. Hence, I’m going to pass
the buck. I have a friend in London and this parrot, Dr. Watson here, is
going to send your engrams and particulars to my friend for a second
opinion.” Shad looked at me all wide eyed and quizzical. “Dr. Bing
Ehrenberg. You’ll find his address in my personal folder. Attach a copy of
Lolita’s previous along with a brief description of the current situation, what
she’s been through, and our assessment of her account, and send the lot
to Dr. Ehrenberg. Include her complete prison record, as well.” I looked
one last time at Rita. “While he’s doing that, I’ll see if I can repair old Ringo
and get the bird singing again. Once I hear from the doctor, I’ll make my
decision.” I put her on pause.

Later, as Lolita’s engrams and history were bouncing off a satellite, I

told Shad to destroy the AI chip once Ehrenberg confirmed receipt and
installation. Then I turned my attention to Ringo. I brushed off the crumbly
old icing from its toes, reattached the parakeet’s robotic computer,
anchored the minicards, reattached the remainder of the connections,
buttoned it up, and listened as the bird began singing the sweetest bird
songs. I held out a finger and with a flap of its wings it jumped up and
perched there, shook the dust from its back and wings, the remaining bits
of wedding cake from its toes, its happy song filling the air. Picking up the
carrying case by the handle, I brought the patient back to our client. Maddie
girl’s face blossomed into smiles. “Bloody Nora, Ringo’s as right as rain. I
comes in here and says to meself this here Sherlock Holmes and his
bleedin’ parrot’re a couple of barmpots, but who’s arse-up now? Eh?
Ringo’s right as rain.”

“Like sands through the hour glass,” began Shad, “so are the days of
our lives—”

“Shad,” I interrupted with a mix of menace and smile.

Since our credit numbers and equipment were out there somewhere
awaiting delivery along with our puppies and kittens, we took Madeleine
Wallingford’s address ostensibly for billing purposes and agreed to put an
advert in the window for an outing to the medieval underground tunnels of
Exeter being organized by the Lympstone Society and another for Maddie’s
own group, the Order of St. Trinians, ta ta, Abyssinia, and all that twaddle.
The door closed.

Quoth the parrot, “Nevermore.”

“Sorry?”

“Jaggs, I think I see the purpose of this catch-and-release policy of

yours. We’re trying to build up the criminal stock out there in the mainstream
so that there will be criminals enough for all law enforcement officers
everywhere to make a living. It’s part of the Blue Peace Environmental
Movement, right?”

“Although I truly admire the depth of your cynicism, Shad, certainly

someone of your sensitivity and high intellect can appreciate that Lolita Doll
has learned everything confinement at government expense can teach her.”

“I heartily agree with your modest assessment of my mental prowess,

Jaggs, but you must really be sticking something tender beneath a pinch
bar if you have to resort to such blatant flattery. Who is this Dr. Ehrenberg,
anyway?”

“Chap in London. Therapist. Back when I was killed in Metro, he went

a long way toward piecing me back together and into my first bio. If Bing
says tossing what’s left of Lolita Doll before a magistrate is what’s best for
her, then off she goes. If he says we do something else, then we’ll see.
Meanwhile, give Superintendent Matheson a ring and see if anything is
brewing.”

He did and something was. While Shad and I had been in Lympstone
disposing of Lolita and the kaput parakeet matter, ABCD units in
Manchester and London, in conjunction with local police authorities, had
successfully detained all the improper puppy imprinting principals as well
as their primary patrons. The bogus bio barons had been bagged. While
muttering, Shad flew to the shop’s garage and copied back into his Nigel
Bruce, I bent to the task of repacking all those bloomin’ boxes of bird seed,
tins of dog food, and little packets of catnip. Mama Bimbo’s Cat House was
going out of business, mon.

****

As Shad drove us back to Exeter he said in his Watson voice, “Of

course, Holmes, Frankie Statten was her partner.”

“Of course.”

“Why didn’t the fellow rescue her?”

“Never let it be said that Frank Statten unnecessarily placed himself at

risk for anything or anybody.”

“Honor among thieves. Humph! Stranding her like that,” said Watson
in disgust. “What do you suppose it was like, Holmes, after watching that
vid a few thousand times with Barmy Barney then shut up in a little box in
the dark for another three years? Nothing to move but your eyeballs?
Nothing to think about but The Manchurian Candidate.” He shuddered
convincingly. “Had to make two weeks of solitary confinement seem a mere
stroll in the park.”

“It must have been strikingly like an experience I had years ago in
London shortly after I died, Watson.” I wondered slightly at my use of the
“Watson” name. Came devilishly easy to the tongue for someone who
swore the name would never pass his lips.

“In a cast were you, Holmes?” asked Watson. “Held in stasis a long
time, old trout? Medically induced coma?”

“Not at all, old fellow. Valerie took me to see a showing of the Bette
Davis-Lillian Gish classic, The Whales of August.” For once Shad didn’t
immediately come back with the release date. He simply shuddered.

“Dear me,” he said. “You gave me quite a start, Holmes. Had a

shockingly similar experience with Nadine not long ago,” he said.
 “Really.”

“I should say so. They had the bloody thing at the Exeter Picture
House. Special treat. I’d never seen it before. The Whales of August.
Ought to require theaters to post well-being warnings before showing the
blithering health hazard.”

“Were you convinced you were running a risk, doctor?”

“Holmes, it was like watching quartz crystals grow in real time.”

I shook my head. “I didn’t find the action quite that compelling.”

Nigel chuckled a Watson chuckle. “You know, Nadine quite likes that
movie, Holmes. What do you make of that?”

“Nadine’s a cat. The Whales of August does bear a striking similarity

to watching a mouse hole for three hours. Val is rather fond of The Whales
of August, too, you know.”

“Really. Well, perhaps it is a feline thing.”

I thought for a moment. “Not exactly. You see, Val wasn’t a cat when
we saw it.”

“But she became a cat, Holmes. Everything was there but the fur and
whiskers, you see?”

“Perhaps. Yes, I’ll grant you that, Watson. Well done.” I glanced over
at Shad and he was doing a very good self-satisfied Watson chuckle having
gotten-one-up on Sherlock Holmes. Detective Superintendent Matheson’s
face came into my thoughts for some reason. “Two things before we get
back to division, old fellow.”

“What’s that, Holmes?”

“One, when we get in the building, you must stop calling me Holmes.
Two, I see that deerstalker cap you have in your pocket.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t want to see it on my hat rack.”

 “What? Wha—What makes you think I wasn’t going to wear it myself,
Ho—Jaggs?” he asked, feigning injured innocence.

There was only one phrase that seemed to fit. “Elementary, my dear
Shad. Elementary.”

****

Time passed as it has a wont to do, and Bing Ehrenberg eventually

rang me to say that he believed the best thing for Lolita Doll was to get her
out of a computer and into a human bio, into some therapy, and into some
vocational rehabilitation. I discussed the matter for all of eleven seconds
with a county crown prosecutor’s assistant who had less than no interest in
the case, and the fellow proceeded to discharge it, including the eleven
months she had remaining on her previous sentence. Lolita had done four
years in solitary for attempted burglary and was now free. I suppose Justice
does have to lift that hanky once in awhile and have herself a peek.

Shad and I, on the other hand, went out on a deranged squirrel call in
front of Debenhams and there witnessed a three vehicle pile-up as two
ground electrics slammed into a lorry, whose driver stopped in the middle
of his lane of traffic because he was stunned at seeing the real Sherlock
Holmes and Dr. Watson. Chief Constable Raymond Crowe, who had yet to
be found out for crimes of his own, buzzed D. Supt. Matheson about getting
Shad back into his feathers. At the very least, Matheson was to keep us off
the streets. The squirrel withdrew the complaint against Debenhams, but
insisted upon autographs from Shad and myself. He returned our early
efforts pointedly remarking that no one had ever heard of Harrington
Jaggers and Guy Shad. After we sent the furry fellow off with the Holmes
and Watson inscriptions upon which he insisted, Watson looked at me and
said, “Why are you looking so glum? So it wasn’t for your own name. Cheer
up. It was your first autograph request.”

“That is true.”

“Consider my plight, Holmes. As the Aflak duck I was asked for

countless autographs but couldn’t sign them. Now I can sign them but they
don’t want my name.”

“Well, cheer up, Watson,” I said. “At least the squirrel didn’t demand
you quack out ‘aflak’ and fall off a cliff. Every cloud has a silver lining.”

“You ever try flying through a cloud that had a silver lining?”
 ****

Early one sunny afternoon, a call came into ABCD from Powderham
Castle, the home of the Earl of Devon. The castle was located almost
directly across the River Exe from Lympstone, between the Village of
Powderham and the larger village of Kenton. The call had been placed by
the head of security at the castle, a former assistant chief constable of the
West Midlands Constabulary named Ian Collier whom I had known many
years ago from a case I had worked when I had been with Metro. A quite
capable fellow, Collier. I had lost touch with him by the unfortunate
expedient of getting killed. I fully expected him to be chief constable by
now. Silly me. Instead he was Mr. Collier and running a private security
force at a castle that doubled as a mini theme park and convention center
with all kinds of events from nature walks and children’s theater to weddings
and rock concerts. Collier had called me directly.

Earlier in the day a large wedding had been held at Powderham in the
castle’s ornate music room. The reception luncheon, curiously enough, was
held in the selfsame music room, while the music, with its concomitant
dancing was taking place in the castle’s huge dining room. Conversing,
apologizing, promising, drinking, changing, pilfering jewelry, and recovering
from various excesses were spread among the other rooms that had been
made available to the wedding party.

The father of the groom, a Mr. Edsel Meyer, first reported one of the
guests missing her jewelry, a rather expensive triple strand of matched
natural pearls. Later, other guests reported missing jewelry until even the
bride, the former June Grimpion and grandniece of Lord Devon, reported
missing an emerald-cut diamond bracelet. The total promised to be a
respectable haul. Ian Collier stated quite bluntly that he wanted that which
could be done in an unofficial capacity to be carried out in exactly that
manner.

When I reported to the superintendent, Matheson, who was a John

Dillinger look-alike bio, wondered why Collier had called Artificial Beings
Crimes.

“Possibly he suspected AB involvement,” I offered as a plausible but

completely untrue explanation.

“Perhaps you should knock this over to the constabulary, Jaggers,”

Matheson said as he contemplated his graphic of the Biograph Theater in
Chicago, on the liquid crystal wall opposite his desk. He shifted his gaze
toward me. “At least until we know for certain an artificial being is involved.
Things are so touchy with Middlemoor lately I’m afraid the chief constable
only needs one more little excuse to go off on the lot of us. Met Parker in
the lobby downstairs yesterday and I swore the chief was going to rip a
patch out of Parker the size of a throw rug. This office can’t afford to put
that gorilla back into therapy.”

I glanced at Dr. Watson as he stood there fumbling with his

deerstalker, and said, “Actually, sir, we were specifically requested by
Powderham Castle. Hence, I’m certain there must be an AB involvement.”

“Lord Devon specifically asked for us?” I could see the stars glittering
in the superintendent’s eyes.

“I took the call myself,” which was not a lie. “In addition, sir, it would
be an opportunity to get Dr. Watson and myself away from the tower for the
afternoon, what with the inspection of the Exeter Station by the chief
constable rumored to be occurring at almost any moment—”

“Omigod!” He placed both hands flat on his desktop. “Ah, I see. I

see. Godspeed, Inspector Jaggers, and convey my respects to his
lordship.”

“I will, sir. Come Watson.”

“What? Oh? Game’s afoot, eh?”

“Don’t you two play at that Holmes and Watson nonsense out at
Powderham, Jaggers? Shad? You hear me? Shad? Shad?” Matheson
cautioned as his door closed behind us.

As the doors to the elevator hardened and the car ascended, Watson
said, “What was that fellow blathering on about, Holmes—all that playing at
Powderham rubbish?”

“I haven’t the slightest, Watson.”

****

Up on the roof, we settled into the cruiser. As Watson drew us out of

our slot and headed the vehicle toward the target, I rang up Collier and let
him know we were on our way. “The security is excellent at Powderham,
Jaggs, but not oppressive,” he said. “Permanent security staff is long
term, all retired police officers. We mostly stay outside the castle on the
grounds. No guards inside. For big weddings like this one we make up
extra security staff with local off-duty police, all good cops. Couldn’t fault
one of them.”

“Cameras?” I asked.

“A few remote recording cameras on the grounds—nothing

manned. Again, nothing inside the castle. Lord and Lady Devon let parts
of the estate for weddings, corporate functions, and other events—in that
respect Powderham is very much a business. However, the castle is
also their home. The more valuable artworks and sculptures have
motion detectors, sensitivity sensors, alarms and such. Anything that
isn’t bolted down has ID nanodots concealed on or in it—no way to get
them out of the castle.”

“What about nanodot codes on the guests’ jewelry?”

“About three quarters of the missing pieces have them. Nothing’s

come up at the gates, and no one’s left by air. No guests have left yet
and no castle staff.”

“Who has left?”

“The first shifts of caterers, florists, technical and lighting crew,

photographers, a quick raid by a discreet liveried dustbin brigade, and
the Lord Bishop of Exeter. We checked in, beneath, above, through, and
around everything that could block a signal.”

“Years ago, Collier, I had a case in which a well-endowed woman

concealed a nanodot encoded diamond ring between her breasts and got it
through the screens. There was a sufficient enclosure of flesh to absorb
the dot’s signal.”

“There is sufficient jewelry already reported missing to pack an

overnight bag, Jaggers. In my entire life I’ve never seen anyone that well
endowed outside a perv graphic.”

“Ah, sweet bird of youth.”

“Indeed. I am aware other cavities have been used in which to

conceal valuables, but have you ever seen the points and edges on
emerald cut diamonds?”
 “Yes I have. I agree: It would take quite a fellow to stick a bracelet full
of them up his bum and still play bass guitar for two hours.”

“Jaggers, unless the thief burrowed out underground, the stuff’s still
on the grounds.”

“I take it you’ve checked possible underground routes and

locations?”

“What do you think? I should make clear, Jaggers, that the castle is
not liable for any stolen property. That’s not his lordship’s concern. It’s
just that his lordship is related to the bride’s family and is a guest at both
wedding and reception, as well.”

“Hence he would prefer not having the screws slamming his fellow
guests up against his ornate walls, spreading them out, and patting them
down.”

“You are so sensitive, my friend. I knew calling you was the right
thing to do.”

“See you in a few, Collier.”

Watson pulled the cruiser up from Heavitree Tower as Collier sent

me lists of wedding guests, wedding service and catering staffs, as well as
castle staff including full-time and part-time security personnel, along with
images.

As we took the Exminster-Dawlish Warren Air Corridor down the west

bank of the Exe, Dr. Watson neé Shad turned on the autopilot, leaned back
from the controls, and glanced at me. “Powderham. This is the place with
the old tortoise who entertains children, Holmes. Timothy something?”

“You are correct, Watson. The first Timmy Tortoise dates back to
1854 and died in the early twenty-first century. The current one is an
amdroid bio taken from the original Timmy’s DNA imprinted by—her name
escapes me—an actress.”

“Went down there with Nadine, Holmes, and caught the woman’s act
just before we were blown up that time out at Hangingstone. Quite
depressing.”

“Getting blown up, or the tortoise?”

 “Tortoise—What? Oh.” He chuckled. “You will have your joke. Her act
was depressing, Holmes, her act. Rather get blown up again than have to
sit through her routine again. Dreadful. Hundred-and-fifty-year gig and all the
flies she can eat.”

“I suspect the actor imprinted onto the Timmy bio restricts her
tortoise fare to lettuce, Watson. Perhaps the odd tomato slice. I hear she
does impressions. Is that true?”

“Dear God, Holmes: Turtle standup comedy impressions for seven

year olds. No one should miss it. ‘Hey, man, I heard these two bugs talking
the other day, y’ know? One says to the other, “Katydid.” Now, get this. The
other says, “Katydid.” Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. So the other
says, “Katydid.” Now, the second bug comes back real quick with “Katydid,
ha, ha, haaa...” Shad looked through his side of the window and back at me.
“Dreadful. Well, it’s work I suppose. Clarice Penne’s her name.” He
glanced back at me. “Ever see her picture?”

“I can’t say I have, Watson.”

“Hideous looking woman. If she’d let herself go a little she’d be a

dead ringer for Alistair Sim. There’ll be a part for her if they ever decide to
tell the story of Jack the Ripper’s waning years in a nursing home.”

“Alistair Sim of the Ebenezer Scrooge Sims?”

“The very same. Not a whole lot of really creepy maiden aunt parts
available these days. I suppose she figures the shell game is at least show
business. Reminds me of that old joke about the fellow in the circus
scrubbing the elephant’s bum.” He coughed a Watson cough. “Sorry,
Holmes. This wretched acting business: Millions grasping hungrily for a
scant dozen brass rings. Had one of those rings once myself.” Silence as
he thought for a moment on his famous past, then he shook his head and
waved a hand as if dismissing it from his attention. “Sorry. Sorry, Holmes.
Can’t imagine what came over me. Got a head full of fuzz lately.
Apologies.”

“Think nothing of it, old fellow.” I frowned at him. How much was fuzz
and how much was Shad doing his Nigel Bruce’s Watson?

He sat in silence for a long time apparently thinking heavily upon

something of great importance to him. At last he asked, “Why else does
this Powderham Castle sound familiar to me, Holmes? It’s stuck in my head
like Tom Mix and Hannibal Lecter, but I can’t seem to place it.”

“Why, I’m astounded, old fellow. Did your Nigel Bruce Watson getup
come with a bumbled brain program?”

“Bumble—No need to be offensive, Holmes. I asked but a simple

question.”

“Now, no need for hurt feelings. Late in the twentieth century what
famous motion picture was partly filmed at Powderham? Remember?”

“A vid?”

“Think, now.” I raised an eyebrow in his direction. “Come, come

Watson. Anthony Hopkins...”

“Motion picture? Hopkins? Wait, wait...”

“Ed—”

“No! Edward Fox! Hop—Remains of the Day. Of course. Emma

Thompson, Christopher Reeve, Hugh Grant—Powderham is Darlington?”
He looked at me, bushy gray eyebrows arched. “Dear god, I am bumbled!
What year?”

“Nineteen ninety-three,” I added with a touch of smugness as I looked

over the lists and images supplied by Ian Collier, which also included
images of the pets brought by a few of the guests. In a flash I knew who
stole the jewelry as well as how it was done. What to do about it, however,
was going to take a bit of detail sorting.

“Having trouble finding the culprit, Holmes?”

I nodded toward his screen. “Have a go at it, Watson. While you’re

busy at that, I need to check some details.”

On my screen I checked my details. My suspicion turned out to be

correct. Assistant Chief Constable Ian Collier had been allowed to take
immediate retirement from the force sixteen months ago for unspecified
reasons. Using some computer tricks Shad taught me early in our
relationship, I managed to find out those unspecified reasons involved
specific unauthorized use of police equipment. It was all in the notes. I
triggered the special links, entered a private code or two, and found the
answers I needed. How mundane the scandalous tale once unfolded.
 When the Collier family dog, a golden retriever named Laddie, was
dying, ACC Collier had had a patrol cruiser with him at his home. In the grip
of despair, he and his two young sons put Laddie into the cruiser to rush
him to the vet. Laddie, however, died along the way. Ian probably hadn’t
even thought about it. The equipment was there, so were his sons, and so
was the need. He harvested Laddie’s engrams onto a chip—police cruiser,
police reader, police chip. What to do with the harvested engrams after that
got lost in the dust when the cruiser’s automatic after-action report was
picked up by a hostile media. It was then reviewed by a cautious deputy
chief constable, judged by a frightened board, defended by an indifferent
Association of Chief Police Officers, and resulted in forced retirement.
Birmingham and West Midlands found itself with one less good cop. Then it
was job-hunting time, new digs, new schools, new church, new friends,
same family minus a dog, a home, and maybe part of a dad.

For every detail sorted, a new one needing a sort popped up. I rang a
number. Bing Ehrenberg was in and available. I sent him what I had along
with my best guesses regarding who and what to do. He agreed with me,
which settled a couple of details. He asked a few questions. I answered
them. Bing was happy to hear I was enjoying my work again. I told him I had
been blown up and was working for John Dillinger. He asked about Val. I
told him she was now a cat. Asked about my job. Told him I was now
Sherlock Holmes. Asked about my new partner. I told Bing my partner used
to be a duck and would be again. He wanted to know how I felt about that
and I told him we got along rather well—even better after he was killed and
came back as Dr. Watson. Asked me if I thought Norfolk would take the
MCCA Knockout Trophy and I told him that would happen when Inland
Revenue ran out of taxpayers. He told me I seemed to be doing much
better. Patience of a saint, Dr. Ehrenberg.

Watson sat back, looked at me, and said, “The butler did it.”

I glanced at him. “Astonishing. What ever led you to that conclusion?”

“Great heavens, man! It’s right there under your nose. Look! The
bounder’s name is Moriarty! James Moriarty!”

I looked back at the list on my screen. “So it is.” I frowned as I

considered a detail that was becoming increasingly troublesome to put
aside: The Moriarty business was only the latest symptom. It was just the
sort of joke Shad might have made had Shad been in his feathers and in
Watson’s place at that point in time. It was also what the current Watson
might have said had he been smoking proscribed substances or
experimenting with having his brain perforated and filled with kitty litter. It
wasn’t just concern for my friend’s sanity. Was it really safe letting him
drive? I was wondering a bit about my own mental state, as well. I was
rather getting into the Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmes character. It
seemed to me I was enjoying it a good bit more than Watson—Shad, that
is.

****

The air corridor followed the Exeter Canal as it hugged the west bank
of the Exe as far south as Turf where the canal ended. The river made a
gentle bend to the east, and the corridor continued south over the farmland
canals and greenery near the hamlet of Exwell Barton. Directly before us,
rising from the greensward like some sort of medieval stone rocket gantry
at the top of a gentle hill was Powderham Castle estate’s triple-towered
stone Belvedere. Vacationers waved from the crenellated battlements and
Watson waved back. Beyond and below the towers, set among the trees in
a deer park by a small lake, was the castle. Looking beyond the castle site
was the wide avenue of the river, then Exmouth just below the curve of the
ocean’s blue horizon. White sprinkles of gulls flitted among the blues,
greens, reds, and yellows of the sails and pennants flying on the sailboats
filling the Exe. Watson pointed toward the boats. “Looks more fun than
selling kitty litter, eh Holmes?”

“It appears so, Watson. Do you sail?”

“Sail? Heavens, no. Do you?”

“I’m ashamed to say I’ve never set foot on a sailboat. I suppose

some day off we could take a lesson. Want to give it a try?”

Watson settled deeply into his couch and concentrated on the Sky
Rover’s instruments. “River looks very deep there, Holmes. Probably quite
cold, too.”

“Nonsense, old fellow. You’d take to it like a duck to water.”

“Very amusing. Those things don’t look safe.”

“Sailing is like working around bombs, Watson: It pays to know what

you are doing.”

“I suppose we know where you and I come down on working around

bombs, Holmes: A bit here, a bit there—”
 “—A bit there, a bit here—”

“—A teeny bit way over there—”

“—And a great big gob or two down right here!”

We finally allowed ourselves to have a thorough laugh over that dark

episode at Hangingstone Hill that was, after all, over—at least until the next
echo.

****

Powderham Castle stood atop a slight rise in the well-tended and

tastefully wooded deer park. We went once around it before touching
down. The lake mentioned before stretched gracefully east and west just
south of the castle giving that side of the building views of deer drinking
from the reflections of ancient trees. The castle itself, although replete with
crenelated walls, gates, and towers, looked to be more manor home than
fortress. Still, it had seen its battles during the Civil War, fighting on the
Royalist side. Norman towers, a mix of brickwork, cut gray stone,
sandstone, carved beerstone casements, oak, and ivy made of it an
architectural map of the centuries it had withstood since it came into the
Courtenay family in the thirteen hundreds.

The Courtenays were not only respected in the west country but well
liked. I doubt if there had been anyone living within a hundred kilometers of
Powderham who hadn’t, at least once in their lifetimes, visited the castle.
Val and I had been there several times on tours and at events: once on a
tour of the castle, once on a tour of the gardens, once on a nature walk,
once as guests at a wedding, twice we went to catch the fireworks on Guy
Fawkes Day. Even Shad and Nadine had been there, as Watson had
narrated. A big jewelry heist among the guests at a Powderham paid
occasion wouldn’t ruin the Courtenays and probably wouldn’t break any of
the guests so robbed. It was not, however, the sort of thing needed right
then by Ian Collier and his family. In any event, it was very rude.

Watson put us down in the skydock off Powderham Castle’s North

Drive. “Notice something about that castle as we came in, Holmes?”

“Many things, old fellow. Which did you have in mind?”

“Doesn’t look a thing like Darlington in Remains of the Day.”

 “Then perhaps we won’t have Hannibal Lecter with which to contend.
In any event, here comes the welcoming committee.”

Since we arrived in an ABCD Sky Rover, one of Collier’s off-duty

constables advanced upon us from my side. He was a chunky fellow
sporting a handsome gray handlebar mustache, a reflective silver and
yellow traffic bib over his uniform. Since Shad had on his nineteenth-century
Watson getup, complete with genuine houndstooth Sherlock Holmes
deerstalker (a size too small) atop his head, a wedding party parking
attendant advanced upon his side of the vehicle. This lad was also chunky,
apparently from bench-pressing railroad rolling stock. He was wearing a
midnight blue tuxedo with a candy-striped tie. Shad opened the windows, I
showed my ID to the constable, but before I could ask for Collier’s office,
Watson asked of the attendant, “Grimpion-Meyer wedding party, please?”

The guide pointed to a slot, I bit my tongue, put my ID away, and

Shad moved the cruiser toward the slot. We both held it in as long as we
could, but mere flesh can bear only so much. Just as we locked into the
slot we collapsed into each other’s arms choking off cries of,
“Grimpion-Meyer!” as best we could. As we exited the cruiser, the parking
attendant and the constable seemed to be arguing. Actually, the attendant
was upset, and the constable was attempting to calm him.

“What seems to be the problem, Constable?” I asked.

“Nothing, Detective Inspector. The lad’s mistaken about something,

that’s all. Heard you and your partner havin’ a laugh and he thought it might
be at his expense.”

“Not at all, my boy,” I said to the fellow in the candy-striped tie. “The
name of the wedding party, Grimpion-Meyer, struck us funny because of
our resemblance to some fictional detectives in some very old vids:
Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.” I took the deerstalker cap from Shad’s
head and placed it upon my own.

“What’s funny about that?” demanded the lad.

“One of their cases, The Hound of the Baskervilles. Have you heard
of it?”

“Of course. I attend Cambridge, don’t I?”

“Cambridge College of Dry Cleaning,” muttered Watson.

 “What was that?” the lad demanded.

“The Hound of the Baskervilles,” said Watson loudly, “took place

near the Great Grimpen Mire.”

The lad stared at us for a moment, then smiled on one side of his
mouth, then the other, then he said, “Grimpion-Meyer,” he laughed, and
unpleasantness was averted. “One thing, though,” the lad said to me as
Shad turned and began walking toward the castle’s north gate entrance.

“What is that?” I answered.

“I understand that Sherlock Holmes—not the one in the movies, the

one in the stories?”

“Yes?”

“I understand he never wore a deerstalker cap. That was just

something they done up in the flicks.”

“Ah,” I said placing an arm across his substantial shoulders. Solid

fellow. “A popular myth that I am pleased to have an opportunity to dispel,
lad. I believe you will find in Dr. Watson’s account entitled ‘Silver Blaze’ the
good doctor depicts Holmes’s attire on their rail trip to Exeter. Watson
describes his friend’s face ‘framed in his ear-flapped traveling-cap.’ Now,
among the available ear-flap caps in those times and later were any of the
knitted, fur, and cloth winter affairs—Andes, Eskimo, aviator, Elmer Fudd,
Omar Bradley, and so on. I’m certain you’ll agree Sherlock Holmes would
rather let Professor Moriarty make off with the crown jewels than appear in
public in any one of them. Do you agree?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Can you see Sherlock Holmes with a shotgun sneaking through the
woods saying, ‘Shhhh. I’m hunting a wabbit.’”

“I cannot.”

“Good lad.” I patted his back. “Sir, the rakish deerstalker is the only
possible ear-flapped traveling cap sufficiently fashionable for Sherlock
Holmes. Good day to you.”

The constable nodded me toward the north entrance. By the time I

had made my way through it into the courtyard, Watson was nowhere to be
seen. I stood across from the castle’s famous red door which, recalling the
wedding Val and I had attended, was the main entrance for wedding
participants and guests. I had a spine chilling moment thinking of Shad
befuddled up as Dr. John Watson stumbling among the guests doing his
best to solve the crime. Just before my blood turned to blueberry yogurt, I
caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. It was a small door closing
in a wall behind and to the right of the main tower. By the time I reached that
door, it had closed altogether.

“Shad,” I said in something between a shout and a whisper, “That’s

the wrong bloody door.” He was gone. I opened the door to a dark sort of
vestibule and entered, the aromas of prepared foods blending agreeably
with the scents of old wood and new wax. I crossed hallways, rushed down
passageways, and generally worked myself into a panic. I peered into
rooms gingerbreaded with Italian molding, hung with portraits of ancestors,
and festooned with Chinese glazed pots large enough to make a rather
comfortable maisonette with the proper plumbing. I peered down hallways
polished until everything seemed dipped in honey, more portraits of
ancestors, polished brass candlesticks, and hoary crude tables that wore
their polished scars with beribboned honor as though inflicted by shielding
the body of the Conqueror himself. Thinking of Shad running loose in this
movie set re-chilled my blood to hypothermic levels.

****

By the time I managed to catch up with him, Shad was standing at the
foot of a dark staircase covered with a blue runner, blue carpeting on the
immediate landing, and more blue runner as the stairs continued up and to
the right. On the back of the landing into the blue plaster of the wall was a
hidden door to a set of servant’s stairs. It strained memory but it appeared
to be where the butler’s father in Remains of the Day first showed that his
squirrels were getting the better of him, as a duck I had once known might
have put it.

Nigel Bruce, thoughtfully cocking his head to one side and tugging at
his bit of a mustache, could have been right out of any of the
Rathbone-Bruce series of vids. He glanced at me. “Oh,” he said bluntly.
“There you are, Holmes. Been looking all over for you. Where the deuce’ve
you been?” He looked back at the stairs. “Look at this staircase. Not much
of Remains was filmed here, you know. Never cared much for the
character of Lord Darlington. Not a great role for Edward Fox, an actor I
much admire, as you know.”

“Yes.”
 “Much underrated in his time, Edward Fox. What a Nelson he
would’ve made. Eh, Holmes?”

“A role for which any self-respecting British actor would gladly give his
right arm, Watson.”

He looked at me for a stunned five seconds before he continued.

“Holmes, remember Fox’s remarkable performance in Day of the Jackal?”

“Yes. Very exciting production.”

“Was there anyone who saw that performance, Holmes, who at the
conclusion wasn’t rooting for the Jackal to shoot Charles de Gaulle?”

“Very true, Watson, but that may have been for other reasons
besides Fox’s performance.”

“How do you mean?”

“As you may recall, Day of the Jackal was inspired by an actual plot
to assassinate de Gaulle. It was said most Western leaders had his face on
their dart boards.”

“I see. Well then, how about Edward Fox’s role as Leftenant Francis
Farewell, the adventurer who came to South Africa to hoodwink a savage
ruler and stayed to fall beneath the spell of the great Shaka, king of the
Zulus?”

I could almost hear the mourning and the dramatically mysterious

musical score as Dr. Watson lowered himself to one knee before the
staircase. He still had his multitrack sound system programs and databanks
intact, if not his judgment. “As mournful chanting lows in the royal kraal, the
reflections of the hearth flames flicker against the walls of Shaka’s great
house. Farewell kneels and listens as the great Zulu king bitterly throws the
Englishman’s deceptions back in Farewell’s face. The leftenant tells Shaka
that hating the English is not the solution, that they must search for the
solution together. Shaka scorns the Englishman’s words. He says that
Farewell is a man with no nation, a shadow. The king tells him to go, that
Shaka no longer has any need for him. Farewell answers:

“Go?” Watson cried loudly, doing a remarkably good Edward Fox.

“Go?” he inquired again of the Zulu king as I heard a squeak come from the
stairs above. “Where?” he demanded loudly and angrily as I spied with my
little eye a sharply dressed fellow wearing a black tux with silver tie
descending the stairs. Between a loosely blown array of silver-gray hair and
the tie was the smoothly shaved, only slightly jowly face of Charles Hugh
Pepys Courtenay, Earl of Devon. He was heading straight down the stairs
for Shad’s performance of Nigel Bruce’s performance of Dr. Watson’s
performance of Edward Fox’s performance of Francis Farewell’s farewell
performance before Shaka, as Shad’s and my pensions joined
Pliopithecus and the Dodo in existence’s dustbin.

“Where can I go?” Farewell begged more humbly, a shaking hand

extended toward the imaginary Zulu king. It was Oscar-winning stuff.

“Where I have been,” answered Lord Devon in a deep, rich voice,

doing a quite credible Henry Cele as Shaka.

Shad looked up the stairs, his eyes bugged, his cheeks bulged, and
he struggled to his feet, spluttering apologies. Lord Devon placed his
well-manicured hands together and clapped genteelly. “Well done, sir.
Shaka Zulu. Well done.” He nodded his gray mane at me. “Indeed, I am
horribly late for the reception and I see the chief constable has sent
England’s most dynamic duo to track me down, wot? Holmes and Watson,
wot? Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce?”

Shad and I exchanged quick panic glances. “Chief constable?”

Watson mouthed. Facing Lord Devon, Watson said, “Just a gentle
reminder of the time, milord. Could you direct us to the castle’s head of
security so that we may report our mission accomplished?”

The master of the house laughed, crinkled his eyes, and pointed
down an ancestor-imaged hallway generally toward the south. “All of the
way down there, doctor, last door on the right. Oh.”

We both paused, frozen in mid getaway, giving Lord Devon our full
attention. It was that kind of ‘oh.’ “Yes, milord?” I said.

“Do you know if there has been any progress made concerning this
dreadful jewelry matter?”

“Yes there has, milord,” I said. “I am pleased to say it should all be

cleared up before the conclusion of the reception.”

“Not a theft, was it?” He pronounced “theft” as though its mere

thought might endanger the very foundations of Powderham.
 “A mere misunderstanding, milord. Nothing more. Please put your
mind at ease.”

His eyebrows ascended. “Excellent!” He nodded, his face wreathed

in very happy smiles. “Jolly good.” He looked at Watson, his face growing
somewhat more serious. “Excellent actor, Edward Fox.” He shook his head
gravely. “Remains of the Day. Hated that movie as a boy. Don’t mind me
baring the old soul, do you old fellow, one actor to another?”

“Not at all, milord.”

“Your excellent portrayal of Edward Fox reminded me of it. As a boy

they told me a thousand times Remains of the Day was filmed here.
Dreadful film. I even watched it once. Could hardly stay awake. I mean you
practically stand up begging Emma Thompson to hop naked in Hopkins’s
tub, wot? Muss his hair a bit?”

“Quite,” said Watson.

Lord Devon looked into a glass and darkly. “Away at school you tell all
your chums the bloody thing was filmed at Powderham. They don’t care the
ruddy film’s boring. It’s Hollywood. Movies! With Hannibal the cannibal.
You sit before the tellymax screen all puffed up, the ruddy thing begins.
There it goes, sir, with that bloody ride up a hilly lane you never saw before
and you pull up to a townhouse with a Georgian roofline decorated with
bloody old urns. ‘Where the hell is that?’ shouts out Jimmy Brown. ‘That’s
not Powderham,’ says Cyril Danforth. ‘Where’s that, Charlie?’ yells out
Tommy Welles. “Where are the battlements?”

His lordship descended the remains of the stairs, clasped his hands
behind his back, shook his head, and made his way toward the wedding
party, still shaking his head. “Scarred me for life,” he muttered as he turned
a corner. “Bloody movies.” Shad and I exited on tiptoe in the opposite
direction.

“Now, was that a good save or what?” said my partner as we reached

Ian Collier’s door.

“Save? Save?”

He gave me his hurt Watson expression. “Of course, Holmes.

Where’s the head of security? Mission accomplished?”
 “Shad, there is a built-in bumble factor in your Dr. Watson brain! It’s
the size of a casaba melon!”

“Really, Holmes!”

“You know what they call a firefighter who does a superb job of
extinguishing fires he himself has ignited?”

“What?”

“An arsonist!” I knocked on the door and entered.

****

The security officer on duty led us to an office, which led to an outer

office and a secretary who led us to an inner office overlooking the deer
park and lake. It was a well-lighted room, smallish, and tucked about with
family photos, professional photos, and neat shelves of books. Ian Collier
himself was older than I remembered, a testimony to the dozen years or
more that had passed since I had last seen him. He was a pleasant-looking
fellow of about Watson’s height, brown hair thinning on top and graying on
the sides. He rose slowly behind his desk as we entered. He had a narrow
face I hadn’t remembered as mournful but which certainly rated such a
description a moment before he caught a glimpse of the professional help
he was getting from Exeter. The expression then became something
between flabbergasted and crestfallen.

“Blood and sand, Jaggs! What’s become of you?”

“I haven’t time to explain, dear boy,” I said briskly. I nodded at Shad.

“Former Assistant Chief Constable Ian Collier, this is my partner, Detective
Sergeant Guy Shad. Watson, this is Mr. Ian Collier.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Watson, extending his hand. They
shook. Collier appeared to be waiting for an explanation I really had neither
the time nor the heart to provide. Hence, I said, “Shad and I are traveling
incognito.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” he responded. He gestured at two red

leather-covered captains chairs facing his desk. “Please. Be seated. Can I
offer you some tea?”

“Thank you. That would be most welcome,” I said, lowering myself

into the chair to Shad’s left. As we waited for Ian’s secretary to bring tea
and biscuits, Powderham Castle’s head of security briefed us on the
missing jewelry. I noticed while he was talking, family photo images
randomly appeared in a screen on the shelf behind Ian’s head. Wife and
two young sons perhaps ten and seven respectively. There was a single
still of a golden retriever hanging on the wall opposite the desk. It looked as
though it had been taken on a sunny day in a field of wildflowers. The tea
was poured and I took my cup. Excellent blend, by the way.

“We need several things,” I said to Ian. “First, as discreetly as

possible, have several of your security personnel go to the reception,
locate, and extricate Miss Betsy Blythe.”

“The blind woman with the seeing-eye dog?”

I smiled. “She is not blind, and that dog is a Labradoodle bio with a
human imprint. As soon as possible after grabbing them—”

“You said extricate them.”

“With prejudice. Once you have them, separate them. Make certain
you get both woman and dog and that they cannot communicate. I doubt
that they’ll be rigged with wireless, but be prepared for it just in case they
are.”

“Very well.”

“Next, I need to interview Clarice Penne.”

His eyebrows went up. “You mean Timmy the Tortoise?”

“Yes. I need to do so in private, with Betsy Blythe, and without the

dog.”

Collier was looking confused. So was Watson.

“Come now, gentlemen. Surely you can arrange a meeting. It must be

near a place where we can have unobserved access to the ABCD cruiser.”

Collier leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “There’s a place
just beyond the rose garden where you can have that meeting,” he said. “At
the east edge of the garden where it drops down to the dressage lawn
there’s a wall. It would conceal your cruiser.”

“Excellent.”
 “Am I permitted to know what’s going on?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, old fellow. It’s like rescuing the troops from Dunkirk. If it
had to be written up in triplicate and approved in advance, no one ever
would have had the courage to take the responsibility.”

Collier looked at Watson, who chuckled. “Holmes really knows how to

lead a charge, doesn’t he?” said my partner.

“Now that you mention it, the phrase ‘the brave Six Hundred’ does
come to mind rather easily right now.” Ian Collier shifted his gaze back to
me. “I’m not going to find out you two have escaped from some asylum am
I?”

“No. I don’t believe you will ever find out.” I touched my fingertips
together and looked over them, my eyebrows arched, my eyes widened,
but not crossed.

He leaned back in his chair, raised a hand in dismissal, and dropped it

to the arm of his chair. “I can arrange for you, your cruiser, Betsy Blythe,
and Timmy the Tortoise to meet privately off the edge of the rose garden.
Anything else?”

“When you took that imprint of your dog, Ian.”

The change of subject caught him off stride. Once his double take
was done, he leaned back in his chair. “When I was forced to retire?” he
asked, his face reddening.

“Yes. Do you still have that chip?”

He frowned. “Yes. It’s here in my office.”

“Excellent. We’ll need that.”

“Is that quite all?” he asked.

“No, not quite.” I rubbed my chin. “We’ll need a dungeon, a butcher’s

apron, some tomato juice, a rusty knife, and two of your most
thuggish-looking cops. They must be reliable chaps, not squeamish, men
who can keep their mouths shut. If the chief constable, the earl, or
Superintendent Matheson get wind of any of this, the lot of us will be
balls-up and most likely never play the violin again.”
 ****

As gentle breezes touched the treetops, the warm spring air was
filled with the heady scent of roses. A marquee for children’s
entertainments had already been erected at the edge of the lawn below the
rose garden. Inside the marquee were a few chairs, Betsy Blythe, Ian
Collier, Clarice Penne as Timmy the Tortoise, Shad as Bruce as Watson,
and myself somewhat in charge. The ABCD cruiser was parked out of sight
of the castle next to the rose garden wall stairs. Collier and Watson stood
guard by the stairs while I sat on the chair facing Betsy Blythe to my right
and the tortoise to my left. Miss Penne, of course, as a thorn-thighed
tortoise, had her head stuck out of a shell about the size of a smallish
elongated dinner plate with warmer. Miss Blythe was somewhat more
attractive being a shapely human female bio wearing a pale blue cocktail
dress with white half-heels. She was in her mid twenties, brown hair with
reddish highlights, a relaxed cupid’s bow mouth, a bit of an upturned nose,
and lovely hazel eyes once I removed her heavy sunglasses.

“A shame to hide those beautiful eyes, Miss Blythe.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know who you are. I’m blind, you see.”

“Actually, I do see, Lolita, and so do you.”

“My name’s Betsy—”

“It’s Lolita Doll, and you are no more sightless than am I. We are
pressed for time, my dear. Therefore, may we dispense with the denials,
explanations, excuses, and so on?”

“My dog—”

“We have Frank Statten in detention and caught red-handed—or

red-pawed—with the goods. Because you tipped us off, we are inclined to
be lenient.”

She stood up and glared down at me. “Lolita Doll rats out nobody,
copper!”

I held up a hand. “Please. Calm yourself. You all but sent engraved
invitations. Now, take your seat.”

She slowly sat down on her chair, still glaring at me, then looking
down ashamed. “You helped me a lot, Inspector Jaggers. That’s the truth.
You and the parrot. Don’t know what I would’ve done if I hadn’t fallen into
your hands. That Dr. Ehrenberg helped me, too. But how’d you know I had
a partner in that Wallingford job? And how’d you know to come here to
catch us?”

“Unintentionally, perhaps, but you told me both times, my dear. The

parakeet was certainly too small either to hide or carry much in the way of
swag. About all it could do was map out the security systems and get the
codes when they were entered. You had to have a partner. Add to that you
worked at Songbirds and we already knew Frankie Statten owned the shop,
and there you were. Then when I heard a large jewel heist had gone down
at Powderham and saw Betsy Blythe had brought a large dog, well, it was
obvious that Lolita Doll and Frankie Statten were at it again.”

“Sorry?” She was frowning at me.

“Betsy Blythe,” I repeated. “Blythe from the Blythe doll created in

1972 by the American Kenner toy company and Betsy from the Betsy
Wetsy created in 1934 by Ideal.” I held out my hands. “‘It’s me, Doll.’
Perfectly obvious.”

“Remarkable,” she said.

“At times I astound even myself. What were you trying to do, Lolita?”

She looked up at me, her eyes filled with tears. “See, all the ladies
had these little changing cubicles set up in the room off the First Library
where they could change before the reception and dance. Can’t thunder
rock wearin’ all that ice. Mr. Collier there had folks they could leave
valuables with, but most guests didn’t bother. Frank was right about that. But
a signal’s supposed to go off when we returns to the shop. That’s when we
was all supposed to get nicked. I suppose this is all right for what it is, but
it’s only going to be attempted, isn’t it? I wanted the whole book.”

“I thought you wanted some place safe, Lolita, to be taken care of, to
be happy and loved. You’re not going to get that locked up in the nick.”

“Half a loaf,” she offered lamely.

“Is half a loaf short,” I completed.

“It’d be almost worth it to think on Frank being miserable for a tenner.”

 “Listen, Lolita. I believe I have the answer to all your problems and
mine.” I held out a hand toward the tortoise. “Do you know Clarice Penne?”

She looked at the tortoise and back at me. “Oh, sure. I mean I seen
her here in the garden maybe a hundred times tellin’ stories to the children,
the tykes pettin’ her shell and all. Every chance I get I come down here. I
told Dr. Ehrenberg about it. So beautiful here.”

“How would you like to tell stories to children, Lolita? You’re good with
lies and know the very best stories. How would you like Clarice’s job?”

“Now you hold on just a minute there, Sherlock,” said the tortoise.
“This is my gig and for as long as I want it. I got a contract.”

I reached over, picked up the tortoise, and whispered at Clarice as I

faced her about. “If you pee on me, love, I will put you on your back for the
remainder of the meeting and leave you that way.” I aimed her snapping
end at Lolita. “Clarice, look at Lolita, hush for a moment and consider: How
would you like to have that face, that voice, that age, those legs, and that
body as you reinvent yourself and relaunch your theatrical career? You’d
still have all your current financial assets, belongings, degrees, whatever.”

The tortoise was dead silent, but I could almost see the smoke
coming off the top of its wrinkled head. Finally the tortoise glanced back at
me. “Who the hell are you, mate?”

“Forgive me, Miss Penne. I am D.I. Harrington Jaggers, Devon

ABCD.”

The tortoise moved its head until it was once again looking at Lolita.
Clarice said, “Would you consider it, girl, even for a serious second?”

“Oh yes! In a heartbeat!” she answered. “You have the most

wonderful job in the world! Please!”

“Girl, you don’t even know what my body in stasis looks like.”

“I don’t care,” said Lolita. “I don’t want that body. I want the one you’re
in now.”

“I have your natural all taken care of,” I said to Clarice. “Are we
agreed, then? Lolita?”

“Safe, taken care of, happy, and loved. You remembered everything,
Inspector. Is there nothing you can’t do?”

“We’ll see. Clarice?”

“I’d sure like to know how you read me so well, Sherlock.”

“Elementary, Miss Penne. You are the only thorn-thighed tortoise in

the United Kingdom on antidepressants.” I held a hand out toward the
cruiser. “Shall we? There is only a miniscule window of opportunity.” Ian
and Watson both hunched their shoulders, turned their backs, and faced
the stairs.

I took Clarice and Lolita over to the cruiser, ran up the mechs, moved
a few things out of the way, moved in one woman bio and one tortoise bio,
swapped their imprints, and moved out one woman bio and one tortoise
bio. Once that was accomplished the two of them went to a far corner
below the rose garden wall to talk over some tortoise-girl, girl-tortoise stuff.
As they were thus engaged, I sent the cruiser to the next location, the
outside entrance to our improvised dungeon, and said to my faithful
medical companion, “Come, Watson, come! The game is afoot!”

****

It was not a bad dungeon for our purposes. The space was below
ground level, sufficiently dank, the walls of ancient dressed stone, the
atmosphere musty. The room’s past as a storage place for meats was
evidenced by the number of rusty meat hooks protruding from two of the
four walls. There were no grinning skeletons hanging from irons, but the
castle’s spider population had done a grand job of decorating the craggy
beams above with filthy old webs. The lights were electric instead of smoky
old torches, but the lights were grimy and adequately dim.

In the center of the room was a large wooden butcher’s block table.
Its dark uneven surface had seen much use over the centuries. The dips
and stains testified to millions of cuts and oceans of blood. I stood at one
corner of the table, Ian stood across from me. At the other two corners
were two of Ian’s men, Peter Blake and Henry Tompkins. They were both
retired constables who did professional wrestling on the local circuit. With
the proper makeup they had also appeared in several locally produced
horror vids. They were wearing the proper makeup.

In the center of the table sat about the sweetest, most good-natured,
lovable dog I had ever seen. He was about seven stone, his fur light brown,
curly, and uncut, giving him both a ragged and fluffy appearance. Delightful
face, with a few of those curls hanging before his eyes. The dog’s name,
according to his license tag, was “Doodles.” His brace, peculiar to
seeing-eye dogs, had been removed and was on the floor in the corner
behind Ian. To all appearances he was a real dog, which meant his bio
receiver was being shielded by a Bio Shack special. Doodles, poor fellow,
appeared just a bit nervous.

“Gentlemen,” I began, “While we’re waiting for Dr. Watson to finish

cleaning up from working on the two cats, please be so kind as to note the
breed of this animal. This is a cross between a Labrador retriever and a
poodle known to dog fanciers as a Labradoodle.” I reached out and petted
its head. “Good boy. Labradoodles are generally good natured, take
complicated training extremely well, and are very remarkable in that they do
not shed.”

“Not at all, Mr. Holmes?” growled Peter Blake.

“Your allergic sensitivities are safe with this pooch, Mr. Blake. Now, as
I remarked, they are easily trained and well behaved, which is why this
animal’s behavior quite puzzles me. There is only one reason I can think of
why such a valuable animal should eat all that jewelry that was left in the
changing room.”

“How can you be certain he done it?” asked Henry Tompkins.

“Elementary, Mr. Tompkins. Staff security have searched everywhere

else, have they not?”

“Aye, we have.” The big man nodded his massive black-hooded

head.

“And Dr. Watson has examined all of the other pets as possible
hiding places, hasn’t he?”

Ian, Blake, and Tompkins hung their heads. “Aye,” said Tompkins.
“He did that.” I rather hoped they weren’t overdoing it. I glanced down at the
butcher block and there was just the right amount of tomato juice smeared
about. The Labradoodle was looking down at the butcher block, as well. His
tongue was out and he was panting.

“There you are, Mr. Tompkins,” I said. “‘When you have eliminated
the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’“
I looked into the dog’s wide-eyed gaze and said, “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
A rattle followed by a low muttered curse came from the shadows beyond
the arched doorway. From beyond it Watson emerged wearing the
butchers apron stained from the waist down with tomato juice. He wasn’t
wearing his tweed jacket and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled
above his elbows. His hands were stained slightly with red, but the butcher
knife in his right hand was coated with the stuff.

“Told you the jewels wouldn’t be in those cats, Holmes,” he muttered

through hurt feelings.

“We had to look, old fellow.”

“Neither of them pulled through, you know. Wouldn’t’ve hurt anything

to let me hop into the village and pick up some anesthetic from the
chemist’s.”

“We were pressed for time, old fellow. Sorry to put you through that.”

He looked over the tops of his glasses at the assembly. “The owners
of those cats are going to be quite distressed and it’s no fault of mine. I
objected to all those procedures from the start. I want that on the record.”
He snorted contemptuously at the butcher knife in his hand, which he began
waving about. “Not even a proper scalpel. This thing’s dull as an old rake.
Do a better job with a chain saw.”

“Couldn’t be helped, old fellow.” I reached out a hand and scratched

the dog’s head. “Here’s the last one.”

The Labradoodle’s panting resembled a steam locomotive attempting

to climb the South Face of Everest.

Watson’s eyebrows went up. “At least this one is big enough to hold
the jewelry, Holmes.” He passed his thumb slowly over the knife’s edge.
“Strange looking beast, there. What kind of breed is that?”

I held out a hand to Peter Blake. “You may have the honor, Mr. Blake.”

“Yes sir.” He looked at Watson. “This here, doctor, is a Labradoodle.”

“Labradoodle, you say? Well, there, stretch him out on the block boys
and let’s see if we can’t separate his Labra from his doodles.”

“All right! All right! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” yelled the dog. “All
bloody right!”
 We watched as the dog sat back on its hind legs, pulled its forelegs
to its sides, and a line appeared in the dog’s fine belly hair. The line parted
starting at the top, and essentially unsealed spilling all of the missing
jewelry into Peter Blake’s quick hands. Watson moved to my side.

“Congratulations, Holmes. You nailed Frank Statten.”

“Ah me,” I said as I shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to

disappoint you once again, old friend.”

He frowned, then one eyebrow slowly elevated. “I don’t believe it,

Holmes. Not another catch and release.”

“With a condition.” I looked and saw I had everyone’s attention,

including the Labradoodle’s. “Jewelry heist at Powderham Castle, right in
the middle of a reception, famous guests, among them Lord and Lady
Devon and the chief constable of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary.
The scandal would never do.” I looked at the dog. “Would it?”

He looked around, shifty-eyed. “No. No, the media would have a

feast.”

“So it seems to me the best thing is to return the jewelry to its rightful
owners, no theft, no scandal, no harm done.”

“That sounds cool.” The dog held up its right paw, extended a toe and
wagged it back and forth. “But, call me Mr. Suspicious, I see a big fat
fishhook with my name on it.”

“Whatever do you mean, sir?”

“In return for this generous offer, Mr. Holmes is it?”

“Yes.”

“In return, what’s Frankie Statten’s bill?”

“Why, I’m so glad you asked that question, Mr. Statten. We keep the
jewelry, return it to its owners, and return you to your natural body in Exeter
no harm done—”

“—And?”

“And that’s it. We keep your equipment, of course.”

 “Equipment?”

“The bios.”

“All ... Lolita. She ratted me out.”

“It’s only because of her you’re getting this deal, Frank,” I said.
“We’ve detained her and she will be spending the rest of her life behind
walls.” I pointed at the velvet-lined interior of his belly cavity. “We knew it
was you all along because your gut was the last place there was to look.
What about the deal?”

“You just let me go?”

“Once we get you back to Queen Street and Songbirds. Is that where
you keep your natural?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you need to be counseled on how much time you could draw
doing things your way?”

“There has to be a catch.” The dog looked down and shook his head.

“Must be disappointing for you, too, Holmes,” said Watson to me, as

Statten pondered the deal.

“Why do you say that, Watson? I would call this a most satisfactory
conclusion to this matter.”

“Here you have a dog and you never got to say anything about the
curious incident of the dog in the nighttime.”

“Nighttime? There was no nighttime.”

“Wasn’t that what was curious?”

“Wasn’t what—I don’t quite see what you are driving at, Watson. I
thought the curious incident was that the dog wasn’t barking.”

“Well, this dog wasn’t barking. Didn’t you find that curious?”

“Not in the least.”

 He leaned back. “Not even a smidgen?”

“Dear fellow, this Labradoodle is an amdroid imprinted by a human

impersonating a very well-trained, well-behaved seeing-eye dog. Why
would he bark?”

“Well, I thought it curious.”

“Really.”

“Game’s afoot and all that—”

“I agree to the deal,” interrupted Frankie Statten. “Just so I don’t have

to listen to any more of this rubbish!”

“Thank you.” I turned to Watson and smiled. “Well done, old fellow.
Well done. So, while you clean up and Mr. Blake and Mr. Tompkins
discreetly return the jewelry to their respective owners, Mr. Collier, Mr.
Statten, and I shall repair to the cruiser and sort out a few final details.” I
held out my hand toward the stairs. “Gentlemen.”

As I followed Collier and the dog up the dungeon stairs, I heard the
Labradoodle ask him confidentially, “This Holmes and Watson thing those
two got going. An act, right? An act?”

“I don’t know,” answered Mr. Collier. “I simply don’t know.”

****

The cruiser rose from Powderham Castle in an arc that took us over
the River Exe, giving us a good view of Lympstone’s Bay Tower red in the
afternoon sun. I could see Mama Bimbo’s Cat House on The Strand being
fitted out for some other kind of shop. A flight of gulls crossed below us
and made wing for chips or fingerlings, whichever were more plentiful as
the tide changed. Watson put us on autopilot and settled back in his couch.

“Holmes, what about Frank Statten and Songbirds?” He pointed

toward the mech chip in the envelope on the dash clip. “Are you simply
going to let him go without even a day in court?”

“I am going to take this chip to his stasis bed at Songbirds, update his
natural, and leave, inquiry closed.”
 “Memories of every crime and crooked deal Statten ever pulled,
everything he has in the works right now, is in his memory recall bank. I
cannot believe you won’t at least make a copy of that chip for the
constabulary.”

“I won’t do it for two reasons, Watson. First, I gave him my word.

Second, I don’t think Statten will believe either that I won’t copy his memory.
Unless I’m terribly mistaken, every iron he has in the fire will be yanked out
within hours of getting his engrams back into his nat. The deals he has
going with any number of undesirable personages will be cancelled, and
they will be after him to know why. Think he’ll stick around to try and explain
how he had to make a deal with Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson?”

Watson chuckled. “Not much to show on our records, though.”

“Small price to pay for ending a one-man crime wave and doing a
good cop a favor, don’t you think? It should make absolute excrement of
Frankie’s criminal life and reputation, which will settle his account with
Loretta nicely.”

“I suppose.” We rode along silently for a while, then Watson said,

“Holmes, what is going to happen to Clarice Penne’s body—the one in
stasis? Sooner or later the owner of the stasis bed is going to have to put
the body up for payments due, correct?”

“I’m surprised at you, Watson,” I said. “Surely you recall our visit to
that fair seaside cultural center you insisted on pronouncing Limp-stone.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Of course I remember.”

“Do you also remember the woman who constituted one hundred
percent of the clientele of Mama Bimbo’s Cat House?”

He chuckled at that. “Yes. Petting Place. Absurd name. Maddie girl,

she was. Madeleine Wallingford. She brought in the hapless jewel thief now
inhabiting Timmy the Tortoise over at Powderham Castle. Our first catch
and release. What of her?”

“Remember the card Madeleine Wallingford had us place in the shop

window? The one for the meeting of the Order of St. Trinians?”

“Vaguely. Theater group, wasn’t it?”

“I’m shocked, Watson. Absolutely shaken to my very nucleus. An old

movie buff such as yourself? You yourself remarked how Clarice Penne’s
natural body resembled actor Alistair Sim, he who in his heyday played the
headmistress of St. Trinians girls’ school in The Belles of St. Trinians to
such perfection—”

“The Order of St. Trinians,” Shad interrupted. “That theater group

does scripts based on the Ronald Searle cartoons!”

“Indeed, old fellow, indeed. Madeleine Wallingford is paying off the

stasis estate agent and collecting the suit for Trinians new star performer
as we speak. You know, possibly going without a proper hat has chilled
your brain, depriving its cells of much needed oxygen, increasing your
brain-bumble factor.” I reached back and took a round box from the hands
of the large walking mech. “In return for our services, I received this from
my friend Ian Collier.” I handed it to my partner.

“I didn’t know we were allowed to accept gifts, Holmes.”

“Nothing of value. This is just an old hand-me-down of Ian’s

grandfather’s. It ought to keep your brain toasty.”

He lifted the lid from the box, placed it aside, opened the tissue
paper, and took the gray homburg from it. “Why ... why this is quite
thoughtful, Holmes.” He placed it on his head with both hands and faced
me. “How do I look?”

“Very handsome, Watson. Distinguished. The very picture of Dr. John

H. Watson.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Why not?”

His face grew long and troubled. “Now, this makes me feel terrible.”

“How so, Watson?”

“Well, I’ve noticed, Holmes, that you seem to be enjoying our Holmes
and Watson thing quite a bit more than I have.”

“I’d noticed it myself. Now that I reflect upon it, I haven’t felt this
perceptive in decades. I feel as though I could untie the Gordian Knot
one-handed, blindfolded, and play multiple games of championship chess
with my toes at the same time.”
 “Feeling rather sharp, eh, Holmes?”

“As a tack, dear fellow. Why?”

“I have a confession to make. You know how I dislike reading

instructions of any kind.”

“Quite. As I recall DS Guy Shad’s famous dictum: ‘If the damned

program or machine isn’t intuitive to operate, it’s crap.’”

Watson chuckled. “Yes. Very amusing.”

“Come, Watson. What about it?” I prompted.

“Brochure came with my Watson suit, you know, from Celebrity

Look-alikes.” He reached into his side coat pocket with his left hand and
pulled out a leaflet folded into thirds. “You were correct, Holmes, about
what you called my bumble factor. There’s one built in. Slows things down
and fuzzes up thoughts while mixing them in with the vocabulary, vocal
mannerisms, and so on of the Nigel Bruce Watson.” He waved the leaflet
idly in my direction. “Something else, too.”

“What’s that?”

“Bit of a cost-cutting measure, I fear. Makes sense if you look at it

from their end. Celebrity Look-alikes, that is. You see?”

“I’m afraid I don’t see. What are you talking about, Watson? What
cost-cutting measure?”

“Oh. Well, usually both suits are rented at the same time: Holmes and
Watson. You see? Symbiotic relationship.”

“Ye-e-es,” I answered warily.

“They had to have the Nigel Bruce as Watson suits made, you see.
For the Basil Rathbone as Holmes suits, though, they simply used the
same model fallen officer replacement suit that you have yourself.”

“That makes perfectly good sense. Why reinvent the wheel?”

“Exactly, Holmes. So you understand.”

 “Understand what?”

“When my Watson suit came in close enough proximity to your model

suit, my Nigel Bruce-Dr. Watson bio program asked permission to insert a
wireless patch through your bio receiver. You must have seen it. You
agreed to the terms.”

“Ever since I went wireless I must get a half dozen of those things a
day. I never read them—who has the time? What—well, what does it do?”

Watson yawned, tipped the homburg over his eyes, and slid down in
his seat. “Only some mannerisms, vocabulary choices, thought pattern
adjustments. According to the brochure it should sharpen up your thinking a
bit. Seems to have done just that. Gordian Knot and all. We can uninstall it, I
suppose.”

“Why would I want to?”

“Perhaps I should. Don’t quite seem to understand what’s going on.”

I picked up the brochure and gave it a quick scan. It had an address

that would be useful in finding out if it would be possible to dial back
Watson’s bumble factor. Something else, too, that might be a problem:

****

The Holmes and Watson duo are only for entertainment, guys! Silly
us! So if you run into real emergency situations while occupying these bios,
programming automatically calls the chaps who are the real professionals.
For anything less than emergencies, programming restricts your problem
solving strategies to those not involving arrests or otherwise burdening the
police. Have fun! And please solve crime responsibly.

****

That opened all kinds of possibilities. A few dozen Holmes and

Watson duos on the streets could put the constabulary out of business for
good.

“Speaking of bumble,” said Watson, “I used to have a bumble

dessert thing when I was with New England Wildlife. Quite tasty. Bumble
brain pie.”

“Doesn’t sound very appetizing, old fellow.”

 “What? Sorry.” He chuckled. “Misspoke there. Bumble brain pie. Silly
of me. Actually it was called bum berry pie.”

“Bum berry pie? Are you certain?”

“Yes. Raspberries, blueberries, blackberries. Delicious. A Maine

favorite. Woman in Farmington used to make it up special for the officers in
my station.”

“Terribly sorry, Watson. Bum berry pie sounds even less appetizing
than bumble brain pie.”

“Bumble berry pie, Holmes,” corrected Watson. “Whatever are you

going on about? I said bumble berry pie. Keep going on about bum berry
pie and you’ll make people wonder from where you got this great
reputation.” He chuckled again and yawned. “Bum berry pie. You amaze
me, Holmes. You absolutely amaze me. Oh, about the dog—”

“Frankie Statten was caught going equipped, hence the equipment is

forfeit.”

“I see that. But since—how was that again?”

“Since we are all agreed that the jewelry was misplaced and not
stolen, there was no crime. Hence, no need to produce anything back at the
office.”

Watson grunted something.

As the late afternoon countryside sped beneath us, I looked back

over my thoughts of the past few days, thrilling at always having an answer
almost as soon as a question arose. Such as, if I am heading east toward
Exeter late in the afternoon, why is the setting sun not at my back but is,
instead, perpendicular to the vector of motion and warming my left cheek? I
looked at the GPS.

“Watson, you have us heading north toward Exmoor. Watson?”

I caught the sound of the old fellow gently snoring, took over the
cruiser’s controls, and entered the correct heading, wondering if the patch I
had automatically accepted into my neural system included the ability to
play the violin and an addiction to cocaine. Then I remembered my Holmes
was a Basil Rathbone Hollywood Holmes whose strongest addiction was to
whatever tobacco was stuffed into that huge meerschaum pipe of his. I
needn’t worry about smoking. Neither my lungs, my wife, nor the clean air
regulations at Heavitree Tower could tolerate any of that nonsense.

My partner was having a bit of bother about the Labradoodle. To wit:

had we stolen it? I suppose a case could be made for it, and I would be
happy to meet Frankie Statten in court any time he wished to settle the
matter at law. Once I was on the proper heading for Exeter, I settled in and
contemplated blowing bubbles from that meerschaum. It went very well with
the image playing before my mind’s eye of Ian Collier, his wife, and two
boys at Powderham playing with their old golden retriever in his new
Labradoodle suit.

Copyright (c) 2007 Barry B. Longyear

****

(EDITOR’S NOTE: Earlier adventures of Jaggers and Shad include

“The Good Kill” [November 2006], “The Hangingstone Rat” [October
2007], and “Murder in Parliament Street” [November 2007].)